“But—but these, sir!” his former subordinate stammered, nodding over his shoulder, and moving his hands so that the chain of the handcuffs rattled. For the moment Griswold had forgotten his desire for secrecy. To be sure, if he could expose Nick, he would be willing to have all the facts come out, but he knew that he would have to be very sure of himself and his facts before publishing any such charge against a man of the detective’s reputation; consequently, he would have to delay, in the hope that Cray would be able to tell his side of the story, and until then it was desirable that no rumors should be set in motion. Therefore, he slipped off his motor coat and threw it like a cloak over Simpson’s bowed shoulders. “Come!” he commanded again. And with shuffling steps, his head down, John Simpson accompanied him to the house, but went through the kitchen, instead of going around to the front door. “Thank Heaven!” the maid cried, as she caught sight of her employer. “Mr. Simpson! Is it really you? I must run and tell Mrs. Simpson right this minute!” “No, no, Mary!” the wretched man protested weakly. “Not—not yet! I wish to surprise her.” Griswold had not told Simpson that the injured detective was in the house, but now he led the thieving treasurer to the room in which Cray lay. He said nothing about his object, because he wished to see if Simpson would recognize the patient at once. If he did so without hesitation, and spoke of him as Cray, that would go far to indicate the truth of his story, for if Cray had been struck down under other circumstances, this unexpected sight of him might well cause a momentary confusion. The spectacle was, indeed, unlooked for, but though surprised, Simpson did not appear to be in the least embarrassed. “Yes, that’s the fellow who called himself Cray,” he said, with a nod. “He was the one that jumped on me first, and the other, Carter, gagged me. He certainly seems to be in pretty bad shape.” The doctor looked at him in the greatest surprise. He had never met Simpson, for the latter had moved to the hill very recently. He knew him by sight, however. “You may or may not know that this is John Simpson himself, Doctor Lord,” the newspaper proprietor said bruskly. “I found him locked up in the garage just now. I’ll make it worth your while, however, to keep a discreet tongue in your head.” The young physician’s shoulders went back proudly. “I accept remuneration for professional services only, Mr. Griswold,” he said crisply. “I hope I can be trusted not to blab anything I may learn while attending a case.” “I meant no offense, I assure you, doctor,” Griswold hastened to say. “I merely——” “Wished to remind me of something you should have taken for granted,” the doctor cut in. “Please say no more about it, though.” Then Lane Griswold did another unexpected thing. He held out his hand with an apologetic smile, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Doctor Lord gripped it firmly.